der Carlisle and Whateley. Sich
sthrictness! sich ordher! sich dhrilling, and lecthiring, and tuthoring
as they do get on wid! I wisht to gracious the one-half of their rules
and rigilations was sunk in the say. And they're getting so sthrict,
too, about having fair play for the heretic childher! We've to have no
more schools in the chapels, nor masses in the schools. Oh, by this and
by that it'll never do at all! The ould plan was twenty times betther;
and, for my own part, if it wasn't that the clargy supports them in a
manner, and the grant's a thing not easily done widout these hard
times, I'd see if I couldn't get a sheltered spot nigh-hand the chapel,
and set up again on the good ould principle: and faix, I think our
Metropolitan 'ud stand to me, for I know that his Grace's motto was ever
and always, that "Ignorance is the thrue mother ov piety."

But I'm running away from my narrative entirely, so I am. "You'll plase
to ordher up the housekeeper, then," says Father Tom to the Pope, "wid a
pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov her fist ov butther,
along wid a dust ov soft sugar in a saucer, and I'll show you the way of
producing a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the thirst out ov
every nook and corner in your Holiness's blessed carcidge."

The Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they were brought in by the
head butler.

"That'll not do at all," says his Riv'rence, "the ingredients won't
combine in due proportion unless ye do as I bid yez. Send up the
housekeeper," says he, "for a faymale hand is ondispinsably necessary to
produce the adaptation ov the particles and the concurrence ov the
corpuscles, widout which you might boil till morning, and never fetch
the cruds off ov it."

Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by-and-by up there
comes an ould faggot ov a _Caillean_, that was enough to frighten a
horse from his oats.

"Don't thry for to desave me," says his Riv'rence, "for it's no use, I
tell yez. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yez: I seen her presarving
gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a
sloe," says he, "and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste of
this celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or mortial this
blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little
finger."

"Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "it's very unproper ov you to spake
that way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir."

"Honour brigh